


The Breath That Passed

by salutationtothestars



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, POV Second Person, Shotgunning, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28354611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/salutationtothestars/pseuds/salutationtothestars
Summary: Kim takes another slow drag. He speaks through the smoke wafting upward.“You sure you don’t want one?”
Relationships: Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi
Comments: 12
Kudos: 83





	The Breath That Passed

You watch the smoke curl and billow out between his lips, dancing, leaving white trails behind in the night sky. It looks good—he looks good, unbelievably cool and proud. A little distant, like a statue behind the rope at a museum: Don’t Touch.

He isn’t… he _isn’t_ the Smoker on the Balcony, not even close. Something magnetized you to that man, an undefinable shock of electricity to your mind and, honestly, to your dick. You wanted him, somehow, or you wanted to be him. Kim… you could be happy if you just got to look at him.

Kim takes another slow drag. He speaks through the smoke wafting upward.

“You sure you don’t want one?”

You shake your head. You don’t, you don’t, even as you think about how nice it might be to take the edge off. Taking the edge off lets your guard down, and when your guard is down, you fuck up. There is no fucking up anymore. If you fuck up, you lose everything, and if you lose everything again, you won’t come back this time. You know it, everyone at the station knows it, and your voices know it. They debate it loudly, telling you too many conflicting things: to bum one off Kim, to demand Kim put his out, to crumple inward and shrivel up so you never bother anyone anymore.

Kim must notice your silence, probably gone on too long. He watches you through his thick spectacles, eyes narrowed, until he’s done with whatever goes on in his mind when he looks at you. His thoughts are probably very orderly. Checklists, neatly kept, like the notebook that’s always in his pocket. No voices to send him in a hundred directions at once.

 _Twenty-four_ , one of the voices reminds you. You don’t want to know which one. _Give or take_.

“Does it worry you?” Kim asks. He’s still looking at you.

Forget what you said earlier, you don’t want to look at him if it means he can look at you. He sees more of you than you’d like to be seen, and yet somehow, he keeps coming back. Thinking about it that way…

“Everything worries me,” you say, half as a joke.

Rather than letting it go (Kim never _really_ lets the things you say go), he nods and says, “Your recovery. You’ve been doing well, on the whole, but many addicts will overcorrect out of fear. Sometimes that makes it easier for them to slip. More self-recrimination.” His cigarette is burning down between his fingers, incrementally, but he simply holds it and turns his body fully towards yours. His voice is too gentle. “Harry. Are you afraid?”

You could give him a dozen answers. Lots of things scare you. It still doesn’t take you much time to decide how to respond.

“Most of the time,” you admit, and this time it’s the whole truth. “Or, always. I think I’m always afraid.”

Kim nods and lets out a soft sigh, barely audible, even in the silence. He folds his free hand behind his back, but the other hand fiddles almost uncharacteristically with the cigarette, rolling it back and forth in a small orbit.

“You try,” he says, looking beyond you into the distance.

You think about turning around to see what he’s looking at, but _Empathy_ tells you that Kim isn’t looking at anything. His gaze is turned inward. He doesn’t really like being seen either, and the vulnerability and intimacy thrumming between you could probably be seen from cities away. It makes him uncomfortable.

Kim continues, “That’s something unique to you. Many people try, but I have never seen someone put so much of themselves into what they do, all the time. I learned something from that. From you.”

You only have one response. It comes out of your mouth before you can stop it.

“What?”

“The end result,” Kim says, “matters. It has to.” His stare meets yours, piercing you straight through his glasses. They make his eyes look like they could swallow you whole. “But really trying matters a little more.”

He lets you digest that while he smokes again, one long inhale, like he’s trying to chase that confession out of his body. You’re thrumming with the praise, the intent, the weight of Kim’s regard, and so you’re a little lost when you miss the first movements of his hand as he slides it up past your neck and ear, putting his fingers into your hair.

The touch electrifies you. That _wanting_ again. It roars to life as your eyes blow open wide and your heart begins to hammer unsteadily.

“Come here,” Kim says, some of that smoke he’s just inhaled leaking out as he talks.

You think again that he’s just so _cool_ , he makes everything look fucking disco as hell, and then he’s gently leading you down to his mouth.

Your lips are on his, opening in surprise; you inhale on a gasp and Kim takes that opportunity to open his mouth as well and _breathe_ , his smoke billowing into you. You take it. There’s nothing else to do. It’s Kim, kissing you, pushing fire into your lungs and leaving you warm. Full. Glowing.

Something inside you—hell, everything you have—yearns into Kim. He keeps his hand in your hair, holding you in place, even as he pulls back just enough for you to be able to see most of his face at one time.

“Why did you do that?” you ask.

Kim shrugs. He isn’t smiling, but his eyes are bright, and you think you see something hidden in the shadows around his mouth. “I wanted to,” he says. “You don’t have to give up everything. Especially not if you have help.”

Help. Not a crutch to lean on, not someone you can wind yourself around like vines on a trellis, ready to collapse if support is removed. Just help. Someone there, who’ll listen. Who’ll encourage.

Who’ll put his mouth on yours, apparently.

_Have him do it again._

“I felt it,” you say, touching your chest, once on each side. “What you did. Right here.”

“Yes,” Kim says. His smile is in the open, now, just for you. “That is how smoking works.”

“Do it again.”

You realize you should have asked, instead of demanded, and part of you wants to apologize, but before you can, Kim’s leaned in and taken you hostage again. There’s no smoke in his mouth this time, just a slick tongue and teeth that bite carefully at your lips. His hand comes up to sit on your sternum, between your lungs.

When you put your hands on his hips, he sighs, and you don’t even think to worry about whether or when he’s going to leave.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously in a world where lungs are the symbol of love rather than a heart, shotgunning becomes incredibly romantic.


End file.
